


A Treat

by DictionaryWrites2



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Affection, Aziraphale Has A Penis (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Penis (Good Omens), Desperation, Gentle Dom, Light Sadism, Love, M/M, Marathon Sex, Overstimulation, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 04:54:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18793414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites2/pseuds/DictionaryWrites2
Summary: After a bout of marathon sex, Aziraphale gives Crowley something new to feel. This is the wax scene referenced in Fit To Bursting.





	A Treat

“Aziraphale,” Crowley moaned. His voice was hoarse and with an inescapable hiss to it, he was  _exhausted_ , and he couldn’t stop his thighs from quaking in his place, couldn’t stop them from shaking, and Aziraphale was  _inexhaustible_. 

“Yes, dear?” Aziraphale asked in his soft, prim, bookkeeper’s voice, sounding for all the world (and Heaven, and Hell) like butter wouldn’t melt, and Crowley whimpered, his head tipping back onto the pillows. The thrusts didn’t stop. Aziraphale was fucking into him slowly, for now: he had been  _hammering_  into him, earlier, but now he had slowed down, and somehow, it was worse. The pleasure-pain was excruciating as he dragged over Crowley’s prostate, playing with the muscle around his hole as he shifted his angle each time, and worse than that was the  _look_  on his face, intent, but devoted, full of nothing but loving warmth--

It was killing him.

Torture would never feel quite so potentially  _life-threatening_  if Aziraphale didn’t look at him with such adoration shining in his eyes, such indulgence, such  _love_. “Crowley?” Aziraphale prompted, and tapped the side of his thigh, making him jump and let out a short, cut-off noise.

“I’m dying,” Crowley mumbled, slurring the words slightly, and Aziraphale laughed, an airy little sound, and pushed Crowley’s knees up against his chest, shifting from having them spread either side of Aziraphale’s hips. The change in angle was  _unspeakable_ , and Crowley heaved in a high-pitched, whimpering set of gasps, scrabbling loosely at Aziraphale’s arms and never finding purchase, never really looking for any. 

“Oh, you are a  _treat_ ,” Aziraphale said indulgently, as if he wasn’t the sole artificer of Crowley’s  _doom_. Crowley was hard, but more out of habit than anything: his belly was a mess of come, slick and oversensitive, and he felt tender all over, his every muscle  _aching_ , his cock twitching whenever Aziraphale twisted his hips just slightly. His bollocks felt like they’d been drawn up tightly for the past  _eon_ , and his stomach was tense, a bundle of tightened nerves, but he’d already come so many times he wasn’t sure he’d be able to ever  _again_. “You do look darling, Crowley, you really do, a positive  _picture_.”

Crowley grunted, shifting his head to the side, and Aziraphale rolled in closer, their bellies together as Aziraphale kissed sweet, chaste kisses against the bared column of his throat, and Crowley all but  _sobbed_. His cock was up against Aziraphale’s belly, now, pressed tight against his own by the soft, rounded flesh, and his breaths were hitching now. He was  _close_ , and he couldn’t quite reach it, but he knew, he knew that when he did--

“I do love you, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered against his ear. “I wish I could keep you just like this forever.”

Crowley choked, because as Aziraphale  _said_  it, he did something, shot a burst of heated energy right  _through_  him, electrifying him from the inside, and Crowley shouted as he came this time, the hot agony drowned in icy-cool pleasure, making him writhe and yelp and cry for overstimulation. He expected Aziraphale to keep going, but Aziraphale very gently took him through it, letting him ride it through, and then he pulled back. Aziraphale’s hands, his body, were replaced by a cold, wet washcloth that brought soothing relief to his burning flesh, gently soaking into the tight, drawn-out muscles and the mess of sweat and come that he was soaked in.

“My darling boy,” Aziraphale said. “Oh, dearheart, my only one.” He whispered the words, soft, against Crowley’s hair as he dipped the kiss him, and Crowley, exhausted, scarcely so much as leaned into it. Aziraphale knew what he did to him when he got into one of his  _sessions_ , left him loose-limbed and sleepy, his body so flush with pleasure that he barely even felt the aching anymore, and he was gentle as he took hold of Crowley’s hips, turning him over onto his belly.

Crowley groaned a complaint at being forced to move, but it evaporated from his lips as the cold washcloth came back, drawing smooth, easy lines up and down his back.

“L’ve you, ‘Zirafel,” he mumbled, and he heard Aziraphale’s soft, prissy little coos, as if Crowley was his favourite pet. 

“Oh, you lovely little thing, haven’t I been so  _cruel_  to you?” he said, and the condescension in his voice, as warm as it was, would have made Crowley shiver, were he capable of  _that_ much movement. As it stood, a deliciously hot shock of humiliation ran down his spine, and he laid his face against his arms, letting Aziraphale push his thighs apart so he could continue his ministrations. “I must take care of you, Crowley, mustn’t I? I should hate to have my favourite toy break.”

“’M your favourite toy?”

“No, dear, I meant this,” Aziraphale said, and tapped Crowley’s buttock, making him hiss. “Ah, there we are. Not broken at all! Just  _overused_.”

“You’re an idiot,” Crowley grumbled, and Aziraphale laughed like sunshine, the sound of it warm and feeling like it dappled Crowley’s back. The angel kissed the back of his thigh, washing over the backs of his calves and leaving a gloriously cool streak of cool moisture in his wake.

“Now, don’t be silly,” Aziraphale scolded. “I do  _love_  you, my sweet, my dear one. I spoil you, I think... But how could I not? When you are here, Crowley, with your perfect little noises, and such a  _figure_  you cut, sprawled beneath me and begging for reprieve.” Crowley’s cock, traitorous thing that it was, a glutton for punishment to rival Crowley himself, gave a twitch. “I could take such advantage of you, you know, in a position like this.”

“Mm?” Crowley hummed, feeling his libido burn in anticipation despite how tired he was.

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale said. “Were I some dreadful beast, or perhaps were I tended to be  _cruel_  to you, o light of my life, o heart of my heart, I might do something awfully dreadful to you, having you sprawled like this.”

“Angel,” Crowley mumbled, “you  _are_  cruel to me.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully, in the voice of one gaining understanding. “So I am.”

And then the wax dripped over the small of his back, and Crowley yelled. He didn’t even lurch up, just sprawled flatter on the bed, feeling the candle wax drip hot and thick and wet, dripping slowly down the length of his spine and then sliding to the left. He scrabbled at the bed sheets, willing them not to tear, and Aziraphale gave a prim, polite chuckle, like he was laughing at a pun at a party instead of at  _Crowley_.

“Is that alright, dear?” he asked softly, his breath warm against the back of Crowley’s ear as he leaned in. 

“Can’t come,” Crowley mumbled breathlessly, not opening his eyes. He had a safeword, of course. Aziraphale had insisted on it, but it never seemed  _necessary_ , exactly, to say Eden: he did like the pain, when Aziraphale wanted to give it to him. He  _liked_  it. “Not again. But don’t stop.”

“I shan’t,” Aziraphale promised, and kissed the shell of his ear as he leaned back. 

Crowley’s cock was so hard he could scarcely stand it, and he moaned as Aziraphale dripped more wax over him, this time over his shoulders, down over the backs of his ribs, and then lower,  _lower_ , over his  _thighs_ \--! The pain was  _hot_ , and he imagined it searing beneath his tortured, overwrought muscles, melting right through it all and getting right down into his bones.

It was agony. It was awe-inspiring, gut-wrenching agony, made him feel like he was being filled to the brim with molten pain, and he choked and gasped and  _yowled_  as Aziraphale went about his work, clucking to him now and then, or telling him how good he was and making his heart  _thrum_  with eagerness to please.

He didn’t come.

Aziraphale painted something on his back, some geometric pattern, and then he blew cool air over every line of wax, gently stroking his sides and his thighs as it cooled down.

“S’that your letter opener?” Crowley asked breathlessly.

“No, it’s my old pocket knife,” Aziraphale murmured, holding it by the blade and pressing the smooth, ivory handle against Crowley’s buttock so that he could feel it before he swapped it around again. “I used to peel apples with this, do you remember? Because  _you_ , ungrateful thing,” the blade tapped against his shoulder, “wouldn’t eat the apples with the skin on.”

Crowley smiled, lazy and slow, as Aziraphale tenderly slid the blade beneath a dried vein of wax, prising it away from the inhumanly smooth skin as Crowley groaned. It was unspeakably satisfying, feeling it come away, not dissimilar to the feeling of shedding a sticky, ill-fitting old skin, but heavier, thicker. The blade was cool in a way even the wash cloth hadn’t, and he felt like he was floating as Aziraphale painstakingly peeled away every line of wax. It didn’t break, like it would have, on a person. Part of it was Aziraphale’s angelic precision, but it was mostly to do with Crowley’s skin, he supposed, because he wasn’t really good at pores, or body hair. He sweated because he felt he should sweat, and the body took care of the rest, without any thought as to how it should accomplish that. 

He couldn’t bring himself to turn his head to look as Aziraphale set the design aside, a criss-crossing array of wax stripes that loosely traced his spine and his shoulders, his ribs, and was  _very much_  like modern art... He just lay there, unable to so much as consider moving, until Aziraphale picked him up and hauled him against his chest and his belly, coaxing Crowley to lay a heavy head on his breast and go limp there. 

“You’ve killed me,” Crowley muttered.

“Oh,  _now_ ,” Aziraphale chided him. “I could never do that... I’ve merely tired you out a little, that’s all. Did you love it?”

“Mmm,” Crowley hummed, inhaling and letting Aziraphale’s scent take him over, letting himself float on clouds of bookbinders’ glue and old paper, wool and wing oil, ink and steeping tea. His body felt gooey and warm, like a fully solid form was a bit too much to ask for at the present time, and Aziraphale’s hand gently massaged his thigh. “Was great.”

“Good,” Aziraphale said softly, and kissed his brow. “Do sleep, my dear, I’ll wake you for dinner.”

Crowley hummed, letting his head loll, and he felt sleep overtake him. 


End file.
